


We Sleep In Pairs

by darkestbliss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Healing, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-03-25 05:39:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13827663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkestbliss/pseuds/darkestbliss
Summary: We do not blame flowers for their death. But when Draco’s magic dies after the War, he struggles to forgive himself, and it’s going to take far more than striking up a companionship with Harry Potter for him to heal.





	We Sleep In Pairs

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt 46 of the inaugural Harry/Draco Consent Fest: Draco was raped by Death Eaters during the war. Harry hasn't felt sexual attraction since before the Horcrux hunt. The war is over now, and they develop a strange friendship that no one else understands. As their relationship progresses, they each figure out what it means to take it slow and listen to their partner and their own desires.
> 
> Title taken from Everything Everything's song 'We Sleep In Pairs'
> 
> This is my first proper venture into Harry/Draco territory and I couldn't have asked for a better fest to kickstart it! Thank you to the mods for running such an amazing and important fest!
> 
> Beta read by CaladSigilon, thank you so much for your help!

_Each night I lay beneath the Earth,_

_I am tired of feeling powerless._

_With no edge and no reflected light,_

_there is something in the way of us._

 

***

 

Like violent parasites, the gazes and whispers follow Draco everywhere he goes through the Hogwarts corridors. _He deserves it, the slimy git,_ they murmur to each other when he reaches for a vial of Horklump juice and jerks back as his wrist screeches in pain. _Wish they’d finished him off,_ they hiss as he wraps his robes tight around himself on his way to a Charms lesson. _How embarrassing,_ they snicker through their teeth when a simple vanishing spell goes wrong in Transfiguration. _Why doesn’t he just kill himself?_ they ask, standing around him with detached stares when he has a panic attack outside the Great Hall before supper.

 

 _I’m trying,_ he thinks every time. _I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m_ trying!

 

The flashbacks are at their worst during the night, when the flowers curl up and away from the stars and the moon, when the lights from the fireplaces dim and the Slytherin dormitories are bathed in an eerie green glow, reminiscent of that room, that night. There are days— _weeks,_ even—he doesn’t leave. He tries, but it takes only one look in the mirror and he’s done, clutching at his left arm and clawing, scratching, trying with all his might and anything he can find to destroy the ugliness in his skin. He tries every spell, every blade, but the mark still remains.

 

Granger tries to talk to him. She greets him when he sits across from her in Potions, asks if he is well, how his Defence essay went. He always nods, never giving a clear answer, then turns his attention to Slughorn, trying to block out the harsh mumblings of the other seventh and eighth years around them. _One day she’ll give up,_ he thinks as she gives him a pitying smile and turns to her own parchment and cauldron.

 

***

 

“I’m giving you a new sleeping draught to try,” Madam Pomfrey says. It’s a Thursday morning; the sun has yet to rise, and Draco has not slept in over 48 hours. “You’ll need to come in to take it. The slightest miscalculation of doses is incredibly dangerous, so I’m afraid I can’t let you take it unsupervised.” She gives Draco a stern look, then her face softens. “Unfortunately, it cannot be mixed with Dreamless Sleep. Are you still willing to give it a try?”

 

Draco just shrugs. At this point, he’s desperate for even an hour or two of rest. His grades are slipping horribly with his faltering magical strength, and he _needs_ to leave Hogwarts with at least a couple of good N.E.W.T. marks in order to find a job. It’s the least he can do.

 

Madam Pomfrey disappears for a few moments with a swirl of robes before returning quickly with a small vial of a bubbling purple potion. She measures out about half of it into a glass, tapping her wand against it in rapid succession. With a look of intense concentration, she pours the slightest bit back into the vial, then repeats the taps with her wand. Satisfied, she corks the vial and hands the glass to Draco, who quickly downs the draught in one go.

 

“It will take about ten minutes to kick in,” the matron explains. “Do tell me how it works once you’re well-rested enough. I will inform your professors of your absence for today’s lessons.”

 

Dreading the amount of coursework he has piling up, Draco disappears back into the corridors and heads down towards the dungeons where his warm bed awaits him. Even as he slips into its dark green sheets, his thoughts are muddling and his limbs are growing heavy. He is asleep before he can even cast _nox._

 

***

 

The sleeping draught ends up being the most dreadful thing since the war itself. Curses mark him one after another, tearing at his flesh and wracking his body with a burning as harsh as fiendfyre. Somewhere, far away in the depths of the manor, his mother is screaming, her voice breaking at the height of every word. _Not my baby, not my Draco!_ His father’s skin is grey with indignity, but he does not look away from the scene as he remains next to Severus Snape and the Dark Lord as Draco is spread out on the table and the other Death Eaters, one-by-one, trail their cold hands down his naked body. Selwyn is first, then Macnair, then Jugson, Dolohov, Scabier, Travers....

 

Draco counts eight times his body is breached before he jolts upright in his bed and immediately heaves. It hurts, _Merlin,_ it hurts. He feels like his wounds have reopened, his bones broken again. Stomach acid burns his throat as he retches over and over again onto the floor beside his bed, unaware of his dormmates waking up and moving towards his bed.

 

“Draco?” someone asks, hesitantly. A cold hand touches his clammy back, and Draco shrieks.

 

“Get off of me! Don’t fucking touch me!” Draco cries, thrashing away from the culprit. A lamp on his bedside table explodes from uncontained, distraught magic.

 

The images are still flashing through his mind as he curls into himself on the bed, the sheets beneath him soaked through with sweat. _Stop, stop, stop!_ he thinks, repeating the words again and again, as if to halt the onslaught of memories. Hot tears run down his cheekbones as he sits back, using his hand to reach between his legs to check for blood. It’s only when his hand comes back clean that the barrage of memories begin to clear. The room lightens, the sun streaming through the murky water of the Great Lake. The walls seem to back away, opening up to accommodate a circle of four-poster beds rather than a long, harsh table that had been there moments before. He blinks up at the face of Garrick Newbourne.

 

Draco is still trembling as he takes in the sight of his roommates, their eyes wide as they stare at his hand. “Sorry, nightmare,” he says, raspily. Quickly, before his housemates can say anything more, Draco stands and slips away into the adjacent loo and closes the door behind him.

 

The scalding shower does nothing to wash away the vile feeling in his skin that emanates from his gut and arm. He scrubs at the surface, wishing the dark ink would just wash away like the sweat and tears. It doesn’t. As if to mock him, his wrist throbs with phantom pains—arthritis, the healers had said when his bones were reset after the battle. Flexing it for a few moments and taking deep breaths, he concentrates and tries to will the strain away. If anything, the pain grows worse, as if his aunt is there again and snapping his wrist with a sharp flick of her wand. _Traitor! Failure!_ Her laugh echoes through the room as Dolohov spits into his hand and thrusts between Draco’s bloodied thighs.

 

He needs a calming draught, and promptly. He shuts off the stream of water with a shaking hand and redresses as quickly as possible. It’s a tedious walk through the corridors. All over the castle, students are waking and heading towards the Great Hall for breakfast donned in their uniforms and house colours. As he walks, Draco pulls his robes snug around himself, trying to avoid the stares and sneers as he makes his way towards the Hospital Wing. The incessant tremble begins to pick up again. A Gryffindor boy swings his bag at Draco purposefully, catching him off-balance and throwing him against the stone wall as the Gryffindor’s friend looks on in glee.

 

“Nice one, Seaton!” the boy’s friend says, throwing daggers at Draco with her eyes as the two continue down the corridors.

 

Draco dry-heaves again as he tries to stand, his body plunging back into full-on and uncontrollable shakes. He’s about to throw his robe over his head and curl up until the corridors clear when someone kneels down beside him.

 

“You okay, Malfoy?”

 

Using all the strength and clarity he can possibly muster, Draco shoots a glare up.

 

“Leave me alone, Potter.”

 

“You’re shaking,” Potter says, his bright green eyes glancing over Draco’s trembling form.

 

“I don’t need your pity,” Draco spits. He tries to haul himself up the wall, but his legs fail beneath him and he topples back to the hard ground with a sharp cry and a thud.

 

Potter looks down at him with a furrow in his eyebrow. “It’s not pity,” he replies softly. “Come on, I’ll help you to the Hospital Wing. I was on my way there myself.” He holds a hand out, but doesn’t touch Draco.

 

Draco’s not sure what to do. Both his brain and body are not working; he knows he’ll never make it to the Hospital Wing without help. The panic has set in, the draining aftermath of the flashback which drags on like a relentless fever. It’s different from the immediate wave, more incessant, possibly _worse_. He could be stuck here for hours, while the day drags on around him and his fellow students spit on his face and wish him dead.

 

So he lets his hand take Potter’s, light and dark skin meeting as he is pulled off the floor and into a warm chest.

 

Shockingly, Potter doesn’t say a word as he helps Draco through the corridors.

 

“Madam Pomfrey,” Potter calls when they reach the Hospital Wing, still holding Draco upright. The mediwitch comes bustling out, her face contorting into a grimace when her eyes land on Draco.

 

“Oh dear,” she says, scurrying over to an empty bed and patting the sheet. “Lay him here. Thank you, Mr. Potter. That’s it, nice and steady. Stay here with him while I prepare a calming draught.”

 

Draco shuts his eyes and focuses on breathing as Pomfrey hastily moves about the room. He is just barely aware of Potter’s hand still on him, though it is surprisingly grounding. He doesn’t dwell on the fact that it’s one of the only touches that hasn’t sent him into more hysteria.

 

Arriving to his bedside with a mug of steaming liquid, Madam Pomfrey slips in beside Potter and lifts the potion to Draco’s mouth. After taking a couple of small sips of the draught, his breathing gradually evens out and his limbs relax from their clenched state. “Thank you,” he croaks, leaning his head back with a huge exhale of relief. The potion has helped immensely; he can tell the worst of the flashback and accompanied panic attack have subsided. A few trembles ghost down his spine, and his wrist still aches, but he can see and breathe and no longer feels like he might die at any second.

 

“Is he going to be okay?” Potter asks, turning to Pomfrey. He’s still touching Draco, though his grip has loosened, fingers just barely brushing the tips of Draco’s.

 

“Yes, but he needs to rest. Come along now, Mr. Potter, I have your calming draught ready as well. How did your last dose do?”

 

Pomfrey’s voice trails off. Just as Draco shuts his eyes, Potter’s hand slips away, and the other wizard follows the matron away from Draco, leaving him alone to rest.

 

***

 

The next time Draco sees Potter, it’s in a Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. The lesson is the Patronus charm, and Draco wonders why he’s even bothered to show up. Defence is his worst subject, and he’ll be lucky if he can even manage an Acceptable.

 

Their new professor is satisfactory enough, but ever since the war— _that_ day, specifically—Draco’s magic has just not been the same. He barely manages spells and charms he had learnt in fifth year, and it’s only when he has panic attacks that his magic even feels like it has any power behind it. Most of the time it hangs heavy and vacant, unable to be formed into anything useful. His lack of sleep doesn’t help improve his horrid marks either.

 

By halfway through the lesson, all the eighth years and about a quarter of the seventh years have managed at least an incorporeal Patronus. Draco is the only eighth year unable to conjure anything—not even the slightest wisp. Through the bursts of blue mist, Potter’s stag leaps and bounces across the room, outshining all the others. He stands next to Granger, his arm steady and a blinding white smile crossing his face as a crowd of seventh year Ravenclaws look on in awe.

 

 _“Expecto Patronum!”_ Draco tries again from his solitary place in the corner. Nothing. His wand doesn’t even quiver.

 

“Come on, Mr. Malfoy,” Professor Whitby encourages, walking towards him. She stops next to him and lowers her voice so that only Draco can hear. “You can do it; I know you can. One happy memory. I believe in you.”

 

Draco concentrates hard, shutting his eyes and focusing on his memory. He pictures his first time on a real broom—the way his feet had lifted from the grounds at Malfoy Manor, how he’d soared just a few metres into the air, looking back at his smiling mother with a terrific grin. He pictures the way his mother had laughed and waved, calling him back when he’d gone just a bit higher in an act of defiance. The way her laugh had disappeared when he had slipped, falling the short distance to the ground. The way she’d rushed over to find him sobbing on the ground, clutching his wrist, screaming in pain. The way she’d wailed, shouting _“No! Stop! Not my baby!”_ as blood pooled around him. The way the Dark Lord had hissed to Bellatrix to silence her as one-by-one the Death Eaters had their filthy way with him. The way her howls were cut off with a sharp _silencio_ from his aunt as Travers finished inside him with a wicked grin and a loud grunt.

 

“Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Malfoy! Draco!” Professor Whitby’s calls just barely register above the screams in his mind. “Someone get Madam Pomfrey!”

 

No one moves as Draco falls to the floor, shaking, his vision going fuzzy and tilted.

 

“Now!” Whitby barks, and in a flurry of movement, two Slytherin boys rush out of the classroom. “Everyone else is dismissed,” she says harshly.

 

Draco is just barely aware of the classroom emptying out, Granger shouting sharp orders to the others, and then it’s just him, Whitby, and… Potter, who has come running over. The Gryffindor pockets his wand and kneels in front of Draco, pitching his voice low and quiet. “Come on, Malfoy,” he says, “Don’t slip away from me. Stay here. You’re safe here. Can I put my hand on your arm?”

 

Draco nods as he hangs his head and rocks back and forth, trying to grasp hold the last bit of his self-control. Professor Whitby is stooped down in front of him, looking at him with intense eyes as Potter shifts, sitting so that he’s sat right next to Draco, side-by-side. Draco looks briefly over to him then back down. Potter’s body is warm and familiar. Draco focuses on the other boy’s presence; he can worry about looking like an idiot sometime later, when he’s not having a flashback to the worst day of his life.

 

“He’s just over here. It was another flashback, I think.”

 

Granger comes into view, followed by Madam Pomfrey’s head appearing from behind the girl’s dark bushy hair. “Draco,” says the matron, stepping in front of him. “Can you hear me?”

 

Draco nods again, and Professor Whitby stands, pulling Granger away with her. Though she looks at Potter commandingly, the Gryffindor boy stays put, his hand rubbing soothing circles onto Draco’s upper arm.

 

“I’d like to stay with him until I know he’s okay,” says Potter.

 

“Of course, Mr. Potter,” replies Madam Pomfrey. “This should take the edge off, Mr. Malfoy.” she says as she hands Draco a calming draught

 

Draco sips at the potion, feeling it take effect in his bones almost immediately. He shuts his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose and out through his mouth, shakily. He breathes in a scent—pine and Fleetwood’s High-Finish Handle Polish—Potter’s familiar smell, and he lets it settle him. It’s one of the first senses that hasn’t sent Draco into a panic in some time.

 

“I need to get back to the Hospital Wing; a seventh year splinched her finger earlier in apparition practice and I need to re-attach it,” says Madam Pomfrey. She looks to Potter. “Will you ensure Mr. Malfoy gets back to the dormitories so that he can rest?”

 

“I can make my way myself,” Draco protests, moving to sit up a bit straighter. He wants to shrug Potter’s hand off, but can’t seem to find the energy.

 

Pomfrey looks at him with scepticism. “I would prefer if Mr. Potter accompanied you. Come see me after supper for another calming draught.”

 

She leaves them, but Potter doesn’t move; he’s still rubbing slow circles into Draco’s arm.

 

“I don’t need to be babysat, Potter,” Draco snaps.

 

Potter’s hand immediately stops its stroking and retracts. “I’m sorry. Let me help you to your room, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

 

It’s a seemingly simple decision, but Draco struggles with it. On the one hand, he really doesn’t want to seem even _more_ pathetic. On the other, he’s almost certain he won’t make it to the dungeons on his own; he’s too weak, physically and emotionally. The slightest noise could send him back into the flashback.

 

Finally, Draco gives a little nod and Potter stands, offering his hand. Draco gulps, looking up at the other wizard. It’s been over seven years since their first meeting in Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, and while Potter is taller now and wearing clothes that actually fit his slim body, his bright green eyes capture Draco the exact same way. He finds himself breathless again. It’s not a panic attack this time.

 

Slowly, he takes Potter’s hand and is pulled up, just like before when he’d panicked in the corridors. Potter gives him a little smile and says, “let’s go.”

 

Being escorted through the castle by Potter is _humiliating_. Though most of the students are in class, a select few gawk at them as he passes by, whispering to each other. _Isn’t that that Death Eater? Why is Harry walking with_ him?!

 

“Just ignore them,” Potter says beneath his breath when Draco begins to tense.

 

They’re like parasites, the lot of them. Even as they make their way to the entrance hall and down the staircase leading to the common room, the words ring through Draco’s head, threatening to tease out the last bits of panic still settling in his gut. He counts his and Potter’s steps— _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8,_ on and on until they reach the door.

 

“I can take it from here, Potter,” Draco says, politely. He doesn’t really want to trudge through the Slytherin common room with the saviour trailing behind him, even though it’s likely no one is in.

 

Potter frowns. “Oh. Okay.” He shuffles his feet, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Are you sure? I want to make sure you’re okay.”

 

There’s a hesitation as Draco narrows his eyes at Potter. “Why do you care?” he finally asks after a couple moments of suspended silence. “Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”

 

Potter shrugs. “Honestly, nothing. I just don’t want to see you hurting. If there’s one thing our world needs less of, it’s pain.”

 

Draco bites his lip and looks at Potter for another couple of seconds before turning to the wall of the dungeon. “Persevere,” he says. The wall swings open, revealing the Slytherin common room behind it, and Draco enters. “Coming, Potter?”

 

He hears rather than sees Potter scrambling quickly behind him just as the door slams itself shut and seals them off from the rest of the castle and all the slander it holds in its walls.

 

***

 

Draco eyes his new sleeping draught with apprehension. Madam Pomfrey has assured him multiple times that the formula is perfect, that a couple of other seventh and eighth years have used it successfully, that nightmares won’t invade his mind. Still, he can’t help but hesitate—he’d go the rest of his life without a full night’s sleep if it meant no more of the flashbacks.

 

Sighing, Draco sets the vial on his bedside table and walks out to the common room. Potter is there reading a charms book by the dying embers of the fire.

 

“Don’t you have your own common room?” Draco asks, but the words hold no venom. The truth is that the past two weeks, since the incident in Defence, Potter has been spending more and more time not exactly _with_ Draco, but around him. Which includes, weirdly, spending his evenings in the Slytherin common room. At the back of Draco’s mind is a voice telling him it’s pity, that Potter doesn’t really care about him, but he chooses to ignore it. The company is nice, even if it’s short lived. Soon enough there will be someone else for Potter to save.

 

Potter shakes his head. “Ron is over so Hermione is… preoccupied. And the sixth years are throwing a party.”

 

“I thought you Gryffindors liked that kind of thing,” says Draco. “Drinking and shouting and snogging and fucking.” He curls up in the armchair across from Potter, tucking his feet underneath him and pulling a quilt over his shoulders. The flicker from the fire dances off of Potter’s dark golden skin, almost as if by a charm. He doesn’t want to break the sense of magic that is suspended in the air.

 

With a half shrug, Potter turns the page of his book. “Doesn’t really appeal to me anymore. The shouting and snogging and fucking, I mean. The drinking appeals to me a little too much, so I avoid it unless my day is particularly shitty.”

 

“That’s a smart thing, then.”

 

Potter looks up from his book and smiles. “Draco Malfoy approving of something I do? Never in my life....”

 

Draco can’t help it; he smiles back, opens his potions book, and settles into the armchair for a calm night of reading.

 

***

 

“When was the last time you had a full night of sleep?”

 

Draco halts in his tracks on his way out of the Potions classroom. He’d thought he was the last to leave, spending extra time packing away his cauldron and ingredients—even asking Slughorn a question on memory potions that he already knew the answer for—just so that he wouldn’t have to talk with anyone.

 

Somehow, though, Granger slipped through his attention. He turns to the girl, snapping, “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Granger.”

 

She pushes off from where she’d been leaning on the work surface and takes a step toward him, arms crossed over her chest. “No, maybe it isn’t. But it is Dean’s business, whom you almost spilt Draught of Living Death over because you were so exhausted.”

 

Draco groans. “I’ll apologise to Thomas the next time I see him. Now I really must be going.”

 

He starts towards the door, but, once again, Granger steps in front of him. Hands on her hips, she looks oddly terrifying despite her height. “Why haven’t you taken the draught Madam Pomfrey gave you? You know it works; are you doing it just to make life more miserable for yourself? Are you _trying_ to fail your N.E.W.T.s?!”

 

“Leave it, Granger,” Draco hisses.

 

“You do know Harry is worried sick about you, don't you? He says you look like you did when you got nearly sliced to death in sixth year.”

 

“I said, _leave it!”_ Draco all but snarls, bile rising in his stomach.

 

“But I don’t _want_ to leave it,” Granger says, taking a step forward. Her voice goes soft but still holds all its severity. “Believe it or not, we _care_ about you, Malfoy.”

 

“All you do is pity me,” Draco mutters, pushing past her and hitching his bag up higher on his shoulder. He turns back at the last minute. “That’s all anyone does—they pity me.” Without another glance, he hurries out from the potions classroom, narrowly missing a jinx set upon him by a pair of mischievous young Gryffindors.

 

***

 

The next day, Draco comes across Antonin Dolohov in the corridors.

 

“G-get b-back!” Draco stutters, the wand in his hand shaking as he prepares to send a curse towards the Death Eater. Dolohov snarls, eyes glittering, and reaches for his own wand.

 

“Come now, Draco,” Dolohov says, with an evil grin. “Don’t you want to have a little fun with me? I know you enjoyed it last time.” He takes a step closer, and Draco’s wand wavers. “That’s it. Are you going to open up nice and pretty for me again, hmm?”

 

“St-stop!” Draco’s hand won’t remain steady, shaking so badly that his wand falls to the floor with a sharp clatter and misfired spell. He shouts out as Dolohov takes another step towards him. “Help!” Draco screams out, slumping to the floor and wrapping his arms around himself for protection.

 

Dolohov has almost reached him—he can hear the slow _tap tap_ of his boots getting closer—when Harry Potter rushes in, shouting a sharp “Malfoy!” and crouching down beside him. “What happened?”

 

“It’s D-Dolohov,” Draco stutters into his sleeve. He can’t look up at Potter. “He’s b-back!”

 

Potter’s breath leaves him in a rush. “Fuck,” he hisses. Draco hides his face in his cloak as he hears Potter remove his wand. There’s a quick, loud, _“Riddikulus!”_ and the _tap tap_ of Dolohov’s boots stops dead.

 

“Draco,” Potter says softly, kneeling down closer, “Dolohov is in Azkaban. You’re safe. It was just a boggart. It’s gone now. I’ve gotten rid of it.”

 

Draco’s eyes dare to look up to where the figure of Antonin Dolohov had just stood but now  lies only an empty corridor. Exhausted, Draco throws himself forward onto the cold ground where he’d been curled up just moments ago and immediately bursts into tears, not even caring that footsteps are coming towards them.

 

“I can’t do this anymore!” Draco sobs loudly. “I’m done! I don’t want to deal with it any longer! I can’t even fucking defend myself! I wish they’d just killed me!”

 

Potter is silent for a few moments, glaring daggers at the group of younger students who have gathered to see what all the commotion is about. “Okay, come on, there’s an empty classroom just up there; let’s go there before more people hear us.”

 

Aware that Potter is trying to help him maintain some kind of composure and dignity, Draco lets himself be shuffled into the empty room away from prying eyes. He slumps down in the corner, pulling his robes tight around his trembling form. Potter whispers a locking and silencing spell at the door then comes and joins him, immediately throwing his arm around Draco. Draco freezes. “What are you d-doing, Potter?” he asks, stuttering.

 

“Comforting you. It’s what people need most in these situations.”

 

“How would _you_ know?” Draco all but wails. Snot, tears, and blood from where he’s bitten at his lips all run down his face, smearing when he goes to wipe it off. It’s really no use.

 

“I know it’s… different,” Potter starts, his voice low and soft, “but I’ve felt the same way. Almost every day, actually. I’m done dealing with it.”

 

“It’s not the same,” Draco whispers. “Your magic is still fine. You were on the right side.”

 

“Sides don’t matter.”

 

That statement feels like a knife to the gut. Draco looks up from his robes and narrows his eyes at Potter. He’s suddenly so angry; it trails up from the pit of his stomach like a storm, threatening to spill at any second. “You have no right to say whether sides matter or not,” he spits. “They _do_. Every day you have teachers and students and the Ministry at your service, ready to do whatever you bloody need, _praising_ you. And you know what I have? I’ve got people hexing me left and right, anywhere I walk, screaming at me that I should’ve _died,_ that they should’ve raped me _harder,_ that I fucking deserved what happened to me because _I was on the wrong side._ And I can’t even _defend_ myself thanks to some fucking curse brought upon me by those _evil_ bastards doing whatever they wanted with my body. So don’t you fucking tell me that sides don’t fucking matter, Potter, because they absolutely fucking do.” He stands, forgetting that his legs are still shaky. He wobbles as quickly as he can towards the door, whipping out his wand and attempting to undo the spells Potter has set on it. His hand shakes; his magic is unstable and explosive and all _wrong_. A flare hits the door, doing nothing to unlock it. Draco chokes and pounds on the door with his fists. “Unlock, you fucking _bastard!”_

 

“Draco,” Potter quietly says from right behind him.

 

 _“Alohomora!_ _Alohomora!”_ The door doesn’t budge. “Goddammit!”

 

“Draco!”

 

“What?!” Draco turns around, chest heaving, arms trembling. He can barely even _see;_ Potter is just a blur of black and brown in front of him.

 

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that,” Potter whispers. “Please. Come sit back down with me? So I can explain?”

 

“You don’t need to explain anything, Potter,” Draco replies. “I know what you meant.”

 

“No, you don’t!” Potter argues back, voice rising. Draco’s skin comes over with goosebumps–all the signs of anger are there, and he knows that anger comes just before he gets hurt, and Potter just keeps shouting. “You’re never going to get better if you don’t fucking _let_ us help you! You think just because people in school are being utter pricks means that we all want you dead, when Hermione and I have been actively trying for _months_ now to help you! You have to let us in, Draco! We have to move on!”

 

Standing there, arms shaking and eyes narrowed as tears threaten to spill over again, Draco realises that Potter’s stance mirrors his own. The other wizard is trembling, and… crying. They face each other, each staring and unsteady. To Draco, it’s like something that has been building up for years has _finally_ snapped, sharp and quick, and he and Potter are suddenly equal again. After eight years of switching dynamics and power, he and Harry Potter stand alike.

 

Potter’s chest is heaving rapidly, matching the pace of Draco’s own racing heart. The tears which cascade down the other wizard’s cheeks equal the ones now spilling out of Draco’s eyes. The pain etched into Potter’s hand, which he keeps flexing over and over, is the same as the pain that courses through Draco’s forearm and wrist. It’s all alike, all the _same;_ their hearts, their tears, their scars.

 

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Draco says, finally. His voice is shaky but clear; it might be the most coherent thing he’s said in over a year. Something has been altered, changed, and _it could have always been like this._ “I’m so sorry,” he starts again, “about everything. My father, me, _him._ I’m sorry for everything.”

 

“It’s okay, Draco, it’s _okay,”_ says Harry, suddenly putting his arms around Draco and holding him close. “It’s okay.”

 

Everything around them comes crashing down, and Draco knows then that things have finally changed.

 

***

 

The shift in their dynamic is immediate and obvious, and Draco initially worries it may have consequences. Still, it only takes a day or so for his worries to alleviate. Harry pretty much attaches himself to Draco’s side, walking with him to and from every class they have together, eating nearly every meal with him at the end of the Slytherin table, and continuing to join Draco in the common room every night for studying, chatting, and _companionship_. Draco knows they are friends now; he has no doubts about it. He is still exhausted and terrified of everything, but now that he has a _friend,_ each day that goes by is a little bit better. He’s even beginning to warm up to Granger, who is positively brilliant and a nice change from Harry who _never_ does his homework. She helps him with Charms and Transfiguration, and even though his magic is still unsure and flimsy, it’s improved from being almost non-existent. Slightly.

 

And then, on a very cold night the week before everyone is supposed to leave for Christmas, Draco shares Harry’s bed. It doesn’t really start from anything, really. They’re sitting in the Gryffindor common room, Draco reading on the Patronus charm and Harry doodling on a scrap bit of parchment. It’s gone well past three in the morning, and all the other students have long since retreated to bed. Draco’s eyes are growing heavier and heavier, but he knows he won’t sleep tonight after the panic attack he’d had earlier when Harry was in a Care of Magical Creatures lesson.

 

“You’re exhausted,” Harry says suddenly. Draco hadn’t noticed him move from the table to the armchair where Draco was curled up.

 

Draco shrugs, turning the page of his Defence textbook with long fingers. “I can’t sleep the night after a bad attack; you know this.”

 

Harry frowns, but nods anyway—and then, he seems to have an idea. “Sleep in my bed,” he says.

 

Raising an eyebrow, Draco looks at Harry closely as if to make sure he hasn’t sprouted a second head. “And what would that accomplish? Besides having a nightmare and subsequent flashback in front of Finnigan and Thomas rather than the usual seventh year Slytherins?”

 

“Well, no. I’ll be there.”

 

At this, Draco coughs. “You’ll _what?!”_

 

“No, really, it’ll work,” Harry replies defensively. “I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before. Ron, ‘Mione, and I did it all last summer—shared a bed, I mean. It was good for when one of us was having nightmares; we could wake each other up immediately.”

 

“Why would I want to share a bed with _you,_  Potter?” The switch back to Potter is immediate and intentional; how dare he toy with Draco’s emotions, when it is so clear how much he relies on the other wizard these days for some source of stability?

 

“Because we’re friends,” responds Harry. “And that’s what friends do. We take care of each other.”

 

Draco narrows his eyes, trying to read the other wizard, trying to see if he’s joking. But no, Harry doesn’t appear to be pulling his leg. He looks open and honest, just as he always does. Breath hitching, Draco swallows before replying, “and sharing a bed will do exactly... what?” His voice has gone strangely quiet at the thought.

 

“It helps, having human contact. A bunch of muggle studies have looked into it; it triggers some primal human thing, I don’t remember what exactly, I’ll have to ask Hermione. But it really works. I should know.”

 

“And what if…” Draco averts his eyes as he speaks, not wanting Harry to see the terror in them. “And what if it doesn’t work?” he asks. “What if I...”

 

Though his words trail off, Harry seems to know what they were going to be. “Then I will be right there to wake you up,” he whispers. “And I will be right there to calm you down. That’s the point.”

 

Which is what leads them to this: Draco in _Harry Potter_ ’s bed, curled up as far away from the other wizard as possible, disgustingly red sheets tucked around his cold body. Harry is already snoring loudly, but rather than becoming agitated by it as he would with Goyle down in the Slytherin dormitories, the sound soothes Draco. He lets himself relax into the mattress, his limbs melting into the soft fabrics and his mind going blissfully clear. Outside, a storm thrashes against the windows, threatening snow just in time for the holidays. But inside, under the sheets and duvet with Potter, it is beginning to warm up. No less than a few minutes after thinking _this is okay, I’m okay_ , Draco falls sound asleep.

 

***

 

Waking at the perfectly normal time of seven in the morning is like a breath of fresh air. Draco sits up quickly, shocked. Outside, the wind is still howling, but a dim stream of light peeks through the curtains, bathing Draco in its chilly glow. Below the covers, he is wholly warm and safe, coming from a very distinct and unexpected source: _Harry_.

 

The other boy is very close to Draco. So close, in fact, that Draco can feel each individual rise and fall of Harry’s chest as he breathes. Draco watches him for a few moments, wondering how it has all come to _this._ It almost doesn’t seem fair to Draco that he suddenly has Harry, a _friend,_ who sits with him and takes care of him when he has flashbacks—even offers his bloody bed to him so that he doesn’t wake up from nightmares anymore. It isn’t fair, it can’t be!

 

Harry stirs, his messy black hair fanning out on the pillow and exposing his scar. Draco stares at it for a few moments. He’s not sure where the urge to press a gentle kiss to it comes from—perhaps memories of his mother doing the same with him when he’d stumble as a child, her soft lips permanently fixing any tiny little cut or scrape Draco got from falling.

 

“Draco.”

 

Harry’s husky voice pulls Draco out from his thoughts, and he redirects his gaze to Potter’s eyes. They’re even more green without the glare of his glasses over them. And they’re looking right at him. Draco smiles shyly. “Harry,” he replies softly.

 

“You alright?”

 

Draco realises that he is. He’s slept through the entire night for the first time in over 18 months. No nightmares to wretch him from his sleep, no flashbacks to send him hurtling towards a total breakdown, nothing.

 

He nods, stunned.

 

“Good,” Harry replies, and that’s it. He says nothing else.

 

That night, Draco finds himself slipping beneath the red sheets again.

 

***

 

Draco doesn’t want to leave his bed. He’d slipped out of Harry’s earlier that morning and trudged his way back to the Slytherin dormitories, knowing that Harry probably wants some time to pack up his things. He fumbles for his wand, setting a couple of warming charms around himself. They’re a bit wobbly, but get the job done—at least that’s something good about today. He misses the cosy warmth of the Gryffindor rooms, though he certainly wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it to anyone. While Garrick and the other seventh years pack up their trunks, Draco pulls his duvet over his head, set on getting maybe a few more winks of sleep. Even with the week of almost full nights of sleep thanks to Harry, he’s still weary and exhausted constantly. _That’s the depression_ , Granger had reminded him last night in the library.

 

Sleep evades him for an hour, which he thinks is probably a good thing. Without Harry next to him, he’s not sure what will happen if he _does_ manage to doze. He could be okay, but he could also be very much not.

 

Giving up and pulling the bed curtains aside, Draco sighs as he sees that the other boys have left, their beds neat and trunks missing. Shoulders deflating, he pulls on a cosy robe and walks out to the common room.

 

It’s a thought that’s been burdening him for the last five days. _Harry is leaving_. Of course, it’s only for three weeks; he’ll be back with everyone else come January. Even so, the thought of being alone in this giant castle with only a few younger students, a handful of teachers, and his damaged magic does not sound appealing. Tears gather in his eyes as he thinks of his mother, alone in the manor while his father rots away in Azkaban. He should visit her; he knows he should, but he just can’t. While Narcissa may have managed to repress the memories of the harrowing events that took place there, even though she and the house-elves have spent months cleansing the space of all signs of the war, Draco still can’t set foot in it. He doubts he ever will again.

 

“Hey.” A voice interrupts his thoughts. Harry has entered the common room, his hair stuck up in a million places, and Draco nearly chokes on a sob as he sees him, clothed in a wooly jumper and ripped jeans with a shrunken trunk in his hand. When Harry notices that Draco is upset, he quickly rushes over, worry etched into his expression. “Hey. I’m sorry, have I done something to bother you?”

 

“No, no,” Draco says, shaking his head and burrowing himself into Harry’s side. “I’m just… worried.”

 

“What are you worried about?” Harry asks, softly stroking Draco’s hair back. It’s a gesture he’s been doing a lot, and it’s comforting; it makes Draco feel _stronger._ Draco feels another sob well up in his throat. _Don’t say it, you’ll make him feel guilty!_

 

“I don’t want you to leave!” he sputters. Regret washes over him immediately.

 

One of Harry’s brows raises questioningly. “Draco, what are you saying?” he asks. “I’m not leaving; I told you the other night!”

 

“What?” Draco whimpers. “What do you mean? When?”

 

“Before bed, on Wednesday. I could’ve sworn you were still awake.”

 

Draco shakes his head, tears still trailing down his face. “Then why are you carrying a trunk?”

 

Harry looks down at his left hand in surprise. “Oh,” he gasps, “this is Hermione’s! I’m sorry; I forgot. I was bringing it down to her and decided to come see you instead.”

 

Draco can’t help but laugh despite the tears and distress. “Idiot,” he says without venom, as another shaky sob coursing through his body.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I am,” Harry replies with a soft smile. He wraps Draco in a tight hug, holding him for a few long moments.

 

Draco lets himself settle and relax into the contact. Harry isn’t leaving; he is safe. He’ll have someone to sleep and eat with. They can play exploding snap and eat Christmas sweets and maybe they can go to Hogsmeade and—

 

“Draco,” Harry says lightly, “I need to bring Hermione her trunk. But we can talk after that, okay?”

 

Draco nods, reluctantly stepping away from the heat of Harry’s body. _Gods,_ how can one person be so damn good for him? Together, they leave the Slytherin common room and make their way towards the Entrance Hall where almost the entire school is gathered. They quickly find Granger, her bushy hair sticking out in a big bun on the top of her head. Her eyes light up when she spots Draco and Harry walking toward her.

 

“Harry! Draco!” she calls, hugging Harry and then turning to Draco with a big smile.

 

“I have your trunk,” Harry says, handing over the shrunken object. Granger nods in appreciation and slips it into the pocket of her puffy blue coat.

 

“Are you catching the train?” Harry asks.

 

“No, I’m going to apparate from outside the gates. Walk with me?”

 

“Of course,” Harry responds.

 

The three of them slowly make their way down from the castle, Granger chatting amicably about the gift she got Weasley. “I’m kind of worried he may propose. I mean, we’ve been talking about it a bit, but it’s just so soon, you know? As much as I love jewellery, I don’t know if I’m ready for a ring. And Molly has been so upset over Fred recently.... I don’t think a proposal would be the best thing right now. But I _do_ love Ron and I know I want to spend the rest of my life with him. Oh, Harry, it’s so crazy how just a year ago we were on the run and now it’s all over and Ron and I are together and you have Draco and....”

 

Her words fade from Draco’s attention as he feels a hand take his own, fingers lacing together. Stunned, he looks at Harry wide-eyed. Harry smiles gently, mouthing, “is this okay?” to which Draco just nods, completely in a daze as it hits him that he’s holding hands with Harry.

 

When they reach the gate, Granger turns and looks at the two of them with a gleam in her eye. “Well,” she says, shooting Harry a look, “it’s about time.” She then hugs them both, tightly, and it feels like the air in Draco’s lungs is being forcefully pushed out. _Is this what it’s like, having friends?_ Draco wonders. He could certainly get used to it.

 

They bid goodbye to Granger, who smiles once more and then disapparates away with a sharp _crack!_

 

“That was… weird,” Draco says, but a smile is stretching wide across his lips at the hug he’s just received from Hermione Granger—much better than a punch to the nose.

 

Harry, also smiling, turns to look at Draco. “Yeah, she’s like that.”

 

“I don’t mind. It’s nice.”

 

Harry nods, then asks, “Do you want to go back to the castle?  And... can I hold your hand again?”

 

The answer is so bloody obvious that Draco can’t believe he hadn’t realised the feelings he’s begun to associate with Harry over the last few weeks were not just feelings of friendship, but maybe something _more_. “Yes,” Draco says. “Please.”

 

The walk back up to Hogwarts is quiet and very cold. Draco wishes that the temperature would raise even just a few degrees, so he could remove his gloves and feel Harry’s skin against his. For now, though, dragonhide and wooly mittens meet in the middle as snow begins to fall down atop them. Their arms swing between them as they start the trek up, the crunch of snow beneath their feet, their heavy-breathing, and the faint chatter of students making their way to Hogsmeade station from far off being the only noises they can hear. They pass a few stray students who are running and chasing each other, giving Harry awed looks and Draco disgusted ones, but otherwise are mostly undisturbed. The Entrance Hall is silent when they arrive back, save for Filch mumbling to himself and stroking Mrs. Norris. Draco isn’t sure where they’re going to go from here, physically or intimately—because by the way Harry is holding his hand and looking at him, this has gone far beyond friends _._ Friends don’t hold your hand and look at you the way Harry is looking at Draco, as if Draco’s just told him he’s giving him a lifelong supply of chocolate frogs.

 

“Why aren’t you going home?” Draco asks when they arrive up at the Gryffindor common room. It’s completely empty save for two fourth years, huddled by the fire reading muggle novels and paying them no attention. Harry and Draco move to the opposite side of the room, sitting down onto one of the sofas. Their gloves are off now, and Harry is trailing his hand over the veins on Draco’s wrist. His touch feels like fire on Draco’s skin.

 

“I don't really have a home anymore,” says Harry quietly. “Or a family. There’s the Weasleys, but I don’t know… I don’t want to worry them anymore than I already have. It’s their first Christmas without Fred, and Hermione and Luna are both going to be there. I’m just not ready for that for three weeks. I did the whole summer and that was… heavy. I’ll apparate over for Christmas Eve supper though, just for a few hours.”

 

“Don’t you have a family, though?” Draco asks. “In Surrey?”

 

Harry lets out a sharp laugh. “I mean, I’m everything they hate,” he says bitterly, removing his hand from Draco’s wrist and narrowing his eyes at an empty spot on the wall. “A gay, mentally ill, Indian wizard.”

 

Draco frowns. “How could they hate you?” he asks.

 

“You used to,” Harry replies. His voice holds no resentment, but the statement still leaves Draco feeling wistful.

 

“I was evil.”

 

“No, you weren’t, Draco,” says Harry. He wraps his arms around Draco and pulls him down against the sofa, Draco’s back tucked against Harry’s chest. The flames in the fire flicker for a second, and they both stare at the way the sparks play off the grate. “You were a prick for a few years, I’ll give you that, but you were never evil.”

 

“Depends who’s asking,” Draco replies bitingly.

 

Harry makes a troubled noise, but is otherwise silent. Draco thinks he may have fallen asleep, because it’s a good ten minutes of quiet until he speaks again. “You know,” he starts, “I’ve liked you for a very long time.” Draco feels and sees Harry’s hand moving across his stomach and chest. “I didn’t realise until we started talking this year, but I think I’ve had… feelings for you since the moment my curse hit your skin.”  
  
“Harry…”

 

“But I had so many other things on my mind. Even when I saw you, at the manor, during the battle, I had no idea. I just sort of… I don’t know, there was so much _else_ to focus on. I wish I’d known. I wish I could’ve helped you.”

 

“There’s nothing you could’ve done,” Draco whispers.

 

“Maybe if I’d just bloody _talked_ to you instead of using a spell I didn’t know the effects of, I could’ve helped. We could’ve gone to Dumbledore, gotten you out—”

 

“Harry!” Draco all but shouts. He shifts on the sofa, sitting up so that he can look into Harry’s eyes. There is trouble etched into his expression, his forehead bunched, eyes shadowed, and lips pursed angrily. “Harry,” Draco says again, his voice quieter now. He swallows anxiously, but puts out a quivering hand to cup Harry’s jaw anyway. The other wizard looks up at him, eyes filled with a guilt that is nearly swallowing him whole. “It’s not your fault. There is nothing you could’ve done, okay? Please recognise that. Please, for me.”

 

Harry’s skin is warm beneath his palm. He shuts his eyes, his dark eyelashes playing shadows on his brown skin where there are various dips and ridges—Draco could study Harry’s complexion for hours on end. Harry sighs, his shoulders seeming to relax from their tensed position. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I just… I wish I could have done something. Even if it was something small.”

 

“It’s okay,” Draco replies, as Harry leans into his hand. “It happened, Harry. There’s nothing you can do about it now; there’s nothing you _could’ve_ done about it at the time. Now we just need to focus on the better things, on the future. Like what you said to me in the classroom. We have to move on.”

 

Harry smiles then. “You’re right,” he says. “You’re getting your strength back; you’re healing. I need to do the same.”

 

Draco nods in agreement. “It’s the least we can do. You’re helping me to understand that. I’ve been so much better these last few weeks, because I’ve stopped denying myself the opportunity to move on. And my magic… I think it’s beginning to repair itself. Slowly, mind you. I was able to cast a warming charm this morning, and it held for the better part of an hour. It felt good. I felt... fixed.”

 

For a few minutes they both ponder Draco’s words, sitting with each other in a comfortable silence. Harry is the first to speak again. “I thought something was wrong with me after the war. I mean… Ginny and I just weren’t _working_ and it was so frustrating that after all that time, we couldn’t be together how we’d wanted. I mean, I realise now there were so many factors.”

 

Draco snorts at this, and Harry gives him a cheeky grin before continuing.

 

“Not just both of our sexualities. I think, even if I were more privy to women than men, I still wouldn’t see Ginny like that. I love her, but as a sister, not as a lover. I can’t see our lives ever matching up again like they did in school, and we both had to move on from that.”

 

“You’ve both changed. War does that,” Draco says solemnly.

 

“You’ve changed,” Harry whispers, his fingers coming to trace Draco’s wrist just between the tendons there and the marred end of his Dark Mark.

 

A tear suddenly splashes onto the sofa between them, and Draco doesn’t know whether it’s his or Harry’s. “Something like that changes people.” He gags when he swallows and his chest begins to hurt.

 

“I’m sorry,” says Harry in a rush, “we don’t have to talk about it.”

 

Draco shakes his head, somehow managing to fight away the trembles as Harry tightly grips his hand. “I _need_ to talk about it. I can’t be like my mother, bottling it up and pushing it away.”

 

“Draco…”

 

“She sleeps in that house, sits at that _table_ _—_ bloody decorates it with vases of dull, wilted flowers, and pretends that it’s all fine. That it’s not all fucked, as if it never happened. I can’t be like that.”

 

“You’re not like that,” Harry reassures.

 

“No. I’m the opposite; I remember it too well. I’m _reminded_ of it too often.” Draco swallows again and looks down at his legs, averting his eyes from Harry’s. He rubs at his wrist, massaging at a phantom pain that runs through the bones there. “I’m worried, Harry,” he says a few moments later, “that I’m not going to be able to be who you want me to be.”

 

“Who says you know what I want you to be?” Harry asks, his voice quiet but firm. There’s a rustling from across the room; the two younger students are standing to leave, the portrait swinging open to let them through. Draco’s stomach rumbles loudly, signalling it’s probably time for dinner in the Great Hall. Harry continues without a pause. “I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe. I can’t ask you to forget; it would make me a hypocrite. _I’ll_ never forget what it was like, to die, to come back, to see half the people I love murdered. It’s something we can’t just simply walk away from with our heads fixed straight ahead. But we can move forward, and maybe sometimes we have to turn our heads and look back. Maybe we have bad days, terrible days, _dreadful_ days, and maybe we turn around completely and go running back to it. I just want you to be okay, Draco. And I want to make it so that maybe you don’t have to go running back so often. All that I ask of you is to let me in, whether that’s as a friend or… as something else.”

 

“Something else,” Draco repeats, “like… as in a boyfriend?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry finishes lamely. A blush has begun to colour his cheeks, and while they’re both still teary-eyed and sniffly, Harry’s speech has taken them over the hard bit of the conversation and over to the other side.

 

Draco shifts, lifting his legs and draping them over Harry’s dramatically. Then, he sticks his nose up in the air and puts on his poshest voice. “I suppose being Harry Potter’s boyfriend is not as ghastly as may be insinuated. I presume it has its perks, such as the finest Puddlemere United seats and extensive fanmail.”

 

Harry snorts and gives Draco a playful punch. “Actually I support Chudley Cannons, so....”

 

Draco gasps in mock-horror. “Dreadful. I can’t possibly date a Cannons fan. The deal is off, Potter.” He makes to get off the sofa, but Harry pulls him back immediately.

 

“You’re such a git,” Harry says. “A git I want to kiss now, if that’s okay?”

 

Draco pushes his face forward and meets Harry’s lips in an answer. Harry makes an _oomf_ of shock, but is quick to thread his hands around the back of Draco’s neck and kiss back enthusiastically. It’s awkward, and Draco doesn’t know if he’s even kissing Harry correctly, but he feels safe and calm and _happy._ Even if Harry _is_ a Cannons fan.

 

They walk hand-in-hand down to the nearly empty Great Hall for dinner, and even when a couple of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws whisper behind their backs, Draco is relieved to not feel the spiraling sense of anxiety he usually gets. The beef wellington served for dinner is warm and delicious, and Harry sits right next to him the whole time he eats, laughing about how one day he’ll make his _boyfriend_ wear that hideous Chudley Cannons orange and complaining that there’s Victoria sponge cake instead of his favourite treacle tart. Draco just laughs in affection. He knows this is one of the good days—one of the _really_ good days, in fact. It may even be the best day, so far.

 

***

 

Between the day he and Harry became something more than friends and Christmas, Draco has mostly good days. He continues sharing Harry’s bed with him, now unafraid of accidentally encroaching in his space; instead, he wakes up every morning with Harry’s arms wrapped securely around his waist. They go to Hogsmeade a few times, picking out sweets to share at Honeydukes and having pints of butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks next to a warm, crackling fire. On the days that they don’t go to Hogsmeade, they practice magic. It’s frustrating, struggling to cast spells and charms he’s known since he was 11. He says the incantations correctly, moves his wand exactly as he’s supposed to, but still his magic falters, as if it can’t handle being trapped in such a damaged host.

 

Sometimes, during the war, Draco would indulge and daydream about another life where some things had changed—maybe Harry had taken his hand in Madam Malkin’s, or Draco had been pulled out of Hogwarts in fourth year, or maybe Voldemort had never even _existed._ He would think about growing up surrounded by love rooted in kindness rather than in hatred.

 

None of his daydreams ever could have compared to this, though. He’d never dared to think of it, of holding and being held by Harry Potter, of soft kisses with barely any touch but plenty of fervor, of warm breath, calloused hands, thin white scars, and cold toes in the morning, of a steady weight behind him, taking all the force of spells and charms gone wrong. It was all too much to even attempt to dream up. But now it’s happening, and Draco finds himself lightly pinching his thigh each morning he wakes up with the other boy wrapped tightly around him from behind, his gentle snores growing fainter with each passing second as he slowly wakes up and opens his stupid, _beautiful_ green eyes.

 

On Christmas Eve, Harry wraps up snug in a thick cloak and his Gryffindor scarf with a shrunken trunk full of gifts in his pocket. He kisses Draco’s pink nose just outside the Hogwarts gates, giving him a tiny smile and turning to disapparate.

 

“Wait,” Draco calls at the last second, just before he lets go of Harry’s hand. Harry stops, looking at him with a puzzled expression. “I just…” he starts, biting his lip, looking up at Harry shyly, “I’ll miss you.”

 

Harry gives him a wide, goofy grin, then pulls him in for one last kiss, lingering for a second to bury his nose into Draco’s pulse point. “I’ll miss you too.” He pulls away again.

 

“Don’t go getting into any life or death situations,” says Draco.

 

Laughing loudly, Harry throws his head back and shrugs. “S’a bad habit.” Then, he disapparates away and Draco is left standing alone amongst the soft snow and dimming sunlight. The walk back up to the castle is slow and a bit lonely, but Draco feels okay. He has at least four hours of time to himself to practice some spells, tidy his things, and maybe Floo-call his mother if he feels he can handle it. He gets his things in order, and heads off to the Slytherin common room to get started.

 

***

 

At half nine in the evening, Harry stumbles back through to the common room. His hair is wild and he reeks of firewhiskey. Even with both arms laden with gifts and a green paper crown sat atop his head, his face is soured.

 

“Did you apparate drunk?!” Draco demands, setting down his Transfiguration textbook and standing to walk towards his addled boyfriend.

 

Harry shrugs, tossing the assortment of half-unwrapped parcels down at the neatly decorated Christmas tree. A few catch the branches, pulling off the enchanted ornaments and candles with a crash, and Draco frowns, immediately moving to straighten them up. Harry doesn’t say anything, just collapses onto the sofa and turns his back away from Draco.

 

Biting his lip and feeling a tremble start to rise, Draco slowly walks towards Harry. “Harry?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

 

Harry mumbles an incoherent reply.

 

Cautiously, Draco approaches him, tentatively sitting on the edge of the sofa near his feet. “What?”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry slurs in response, mashing his face into the cushion of the sofa and bending his glasses until they creak warningly.

 

“It may be good to talk about it,” Draco suggests.

 

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry snaps, whipping around and glaring at Draco.

 

Draco swallows nervously and removes his hand from where it was shifting to touch Harry’s knee. He stands, looking at his boyfriend with tears in his eyes. He can’t help it—Harry has never been upset with him like this before. Without another word, he rushes to the Slytherin dormitories, throwing himself onto his bed and weeping into his pillows. The shudders overcome his body in just seconds, and it’s not long before he feels himself reverting to the shell he was before.

 

Draco feels sick. _He hates you, he hates you, he_ hates _you!_ Just moments before retching, the door to the room opens. “Just leave me be!” he shouts, the words muddled by sobs.

 

He feels a weight join him on the bed, and a few moments later, a hand touches Draco’s calf. _It’s happening again._ Draco jumps in panic, grabbing his wand and kicking out. He tries to aim his wand at the intruder, but it shakes in his hand and he can’t see through the tears clouding his vision.

 

“Draco,” comes a voice, breaking through the haze of panic. Draco looks around frantically, trying to pinpoint the voice. The person who touched him has stood up and is raising their hands. Draco squints up at the person, blinking the tears out of his eyes.

 

It’s Harry. His eyes are clear, fixated on him. A sobering potion is in his left hand and he’s saying something. Draco blinks again, shakes his head, and looks at Harry.

 

“Draco, can you hear me? Can I sit?”

 

“Harry?”

 

“That’s it.” Harry slowly reaches out with his hand, letting it extend just a few inches from Draco’s face. Instinctively, Draco falls into it, his eyes shutting just as his shoulders give a giant heave. Harry’s fingers are warm, cupping his jaw ever so gently. “I’m so sorry, Draco,” Harry whispers. Besides his fingers beneath Draco’s face, he keeps his distance, his words slow, even, and calm. “I didn’t mean to yell at you like that, and I forgot to ask you before I touched you. Can I sit?”

 

Draco nods, allowing his breathing to lengthen out. The bed dips again, and Harry sits on the end, taking his wand and casting a warming charm. Immediately, the dim dormitory lightens a bit, and Draco feels the wash of Harry’s magic settle over him. He sniffs, sitting up and pulling the duvet with him. “I’m sorry for storming off,” he says, his voice quiet.

 

“I never should have let myself get like that in the first place,” Harry responds.

 

Draco leans across the bed into Harry’s space, grabbing Harry’s hand and squeezing it tightly as the last few trembles make their escape. He sighs exasperatedly. “I think it’s over,” he says after about a minute. He settles fully into Harry’s embrace, noticing that the smell of firewhiskey has been replaced with the scent of a freshening charm and Harry’s natural odour. “Did you do a freshening charm as well?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry says with a sigh, “I got quite good at them while on the run last year. I’m sorry, I should have thought to take the potion before leaving; I was just so angry.”

 

“It’s okay, Harry. Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Harry nods. “Yeah. Yeah I do.” He looks at Draco earnestly, taking both his hands and gripping them tightly. His olive eyes still reflect his temper, some sort of internal rage that Draco knows he hasn’t let out yet—though at least now he knows it isn’t directed at him. It’s something else, something _outside_ of Draco’s control. If it wasn’t so upsetting to him that Harry had become bothered over something, he would have found it comforting. Harry removes his hands from Draco’s and looks down at them, twiddling with the cuticle on his left thumb before looking back up. “It’s the Weasleys. Not _all_ of them. Well, actually, yeah, all the men.”

 

Draco cocks his head to the side, encouraging Harry to go on. His boyfriend swallows uncomfortably, his face twisting into a vexing expression.

 

“I told them about you, during dinner.”

 

Draco’s eyes widen, but he stays silent.

 

“I was so bloody excited to tell them about something in my life going _right,_ for once. And they just… they were so angry.” Harry fists his hands into his hair, tugging once. Draco gently pulls them free, clenching his hands around them in encouragement. Harry grimaces. “Thank you. I mean, I should have known. Ron always _has_ been a stubborn git, maybe even more stubborn than you are.” Harry chuckles then and shakes his head. “You should have seen him in fourth year; the tosser actually believed I’d put my name into that bloody goblet.”

 

“Even _I_ know you weren’t that stupid,” Draco replies with a little chuckle.

 

With a roll of his eyes, Harry continues. “He said we’re a disaster waiting to happen, a combination of two opposing forces that just won’t work together and are bound to erupt at any moment. And it hurt. And the worst bit is, they all agreed with him. All except for Molly and Gin.”

 

Draco hadn’t thought about how Harry’s friends and adopted family would think about them together. Of course, Draco has no one to tell—by way of choice, he’s cut off everyone he knew growing up, including his friends. And his mother, well… she is hardly the woman she used to be. A simple, ‘yes, dear, that is lovely, I trust he will be joining us in the Manor for tea this weekend?’ would be her response—dreamy, vacant, _careless,_ as if Harry is just some random posh boy from the West Country and not the man who is the reason she and everyone else is still alive.

 

“He’ll come around, won’t he?” Draco asks.

 

Harry shrugs. “He’d better, or I’ll kick his arse. Anyway, it was… the topic of the evening, after that. I wish I hadn’t said anything. It was like I wasn’t even there; all anyone cared about was you, what you were _up_ to.”

 

It’s difficult to hear, to know the people his boyfriend loves most still see him as nothing but a failure. _Always a Death Eater._

 

“So I just decided to get drunk,” Harry continues, “without anyone noticing. Actually, Hermione noticed almost immediately. Pulled me aside and gave me a good telling off. Molly, too. Ginny just looked at me sympathetically.”

 

Draco remembers Harry’s words from a couple months back. _The drinking appeals to me a little too much._

 

“I feel so horrid,” Harry says honestly, “absolutely horrid.”

 

“It’s okay,” says Draco, rubbing Harry’s hand, “it was a shite situation. At least nobody got hurt, right? No hexing was involved, I presume?”

 

Harry looks at him sadly. “You got hurt,” he whispers.

 

“Yes,” Draco admits, “I did. But you were very quick to realise, and we got the situation under control quite quickly, don’t you think?”

 

“I suppose,” says Harry, nodding. Then, suddenly, he bursts out, “Merlin, you’re so smart.”

 

Draco can’t help it; he blushes furiously. “Where did that come from?” he asks, curiously.

 

“Just, I don’t know.” Harry shrugs. “You’re being so rational and even-headed right now; it’s brilliant. I always thought that was a Ravenclaw thing. Or maybe just a Hermione thing.”

 

“Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with her.”

 

“Perhaps.” Harry gives him a small smile. “I just… I wish they would have been happy for me, rather than immediately trying to talk me out of it. As if I hadn’t decided _weeks_ ago that you’re it for me.”

 

Eyebrows flying up, Draco looks at him in shock. “You what?”

 

“I just knew,” Harry says with a shrug, “from the second I held your hand.”

 

“But… how?”

 

“Dunno, call it a gut feeling. I get a lot of those, and they’re mostly right.” Harry shrugs.

 

Draco can’t pinpoint what he’s feeling. Is he relieved that Harry—at least for now—wants to stay? Regretful that they couldn’t have had this before the war and the malice? Worried that Harry doesn’t know how he really feels? Excited that this could be it, something in his life that somehow stays whole?

 

“I think I’m in love with you,” Harry adds, quietly.

 

 _Loved._ He feels loved.

 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to say it back,” Harry continues. “I understand. But I need you to know now, early, that I am committed to you wholly, without exception. I’ve gone too long with people telling me what to bloody do and say—and what _not_ to bloody do and say—tossing me back and forth, _playing_ with me in a _war._ I’m done having other people make decisions for me. This is my choice, and my choice is you, Draco. And I would love if I could be your choice, too.”

 

The tears give Draco away, and he throws himself into Harry’s arms. “Yes,” he sniffs, “you are my choice, Harry. Wholeheartedly. You’ve been my choice for a very long time.”

 

Harry holds him tightly, pressing his mouth to the crown of Draco’s head and breathing in deeply. They’re both silent, savouring the moment as it drifts over them much as the snow outside drifts past the window in quick, white flurries. Draco feels a sudden heat form deep in his upper abdomen, just below his sternum. It’s rich, overpowering, akin to only one other moment in his life: two weeks before his eleventh birthday, when he’d stood on the terrace overlooking the garden and held out his hand, watching the curtains of the conservatory flick to and fro with the littlest wave of his palm as his mother praised him. _Beautiful, baby. That’s it, Draco._

 

“Harry!” Draco gasps. “My magic! I feel it!”

 

“What?!” Harry steps back, wide-eyed as Draco raises his hand palm up between them. Draco can feel the magic settling back into his bones, resting entirely in his soul. “Draco,” he whispers.

 

Amazed at the feeling that’s resonated in his skin, Draco quickly grabs his wand, wondering to himself what he should cast first. “May I?” he asks, pointing to Harry. Harry nods enthusiastically, and Draco can’t get over the _trust_ he sees in his boyfriend’s eyes. _“Herbifors,”_ he murmurs, concentrating hard and pointing his wand at the top of Harry’s head. His boyfriend’s eyebrows shoot upwards as the spell takes effect, and out from Harry’s nest of a haircut grow two perfect flowers.

 

Quickly, Harry darts to the mirror on the wall, Draco following right behind him. A smile erupts onto Harry’s face as he looks over his reflection, his hand going up to caress the soft petals. “A lily,” he says quietly, “and a… daffodil?”

 

“Narcissus,” Draco confirms, nodding, “for my mother.”

 

Harry turns around, immediately enveloping Draco in an embrace so profound that it shakes his whole body. They stand locked together, swaying gently as the magic begins to rest, settling into its place among Draco’s flesh and soul. Harry inhales deeply, the calmness of his and Draco’s heart rates flowing outwards and filling the room with peace. “What do you think made it come back?” Harry asks quietly.

 

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Draco replies honestly. They break apart, their hands still laced together between them, and they smile at each other. A yawn breaks through Draco’s smile, stretching his face wide as exhaustion takes over. “We should sleep, though.”

 

The yawn catches, and Harry covers his mouth for a moment. “Yeah, we’ve had an eventful evening. And it’s bloody cold in here.” He shivers dramatically as if to prove his point. “Let’s go.”

 

As they make their way through the castle and towards Gryffindor tower, it’s like all of Draco’s senses are back in working order. He smells mincemeat and pine, hears the pleasant tapping of Harry’s and his shoes on the stone floor, feels the heat of the warming charm he’s placed around them, and sees the twinkling of the candles and fairy lights that Professor Flitwick has enchanted to hover and flicker above each main corridor in the castle. He feels the softness of the red sheets as he slips into Harry’s bed beside the other sleepy wizard, hears Harry’s whisper of “can I touch you?” as he burrows closer to the Draco, breathes the cinnamon scent of his cologne as Harry’s lips find his collarbone, listens to Harry’s breath catch as Draco nervously hitches his leg between Harry’s thighs, counts in his head _1, 2, 3, 4_ as Harry’s hands trail over his chest and shoulders. And a few minutes later, when Harry asks the question again, Draco softly exclaims _“yes!”_ , finally experiencing the tender touch of devotion and yearning where rancour and acrimony had been before.

 

***

 

“Oh, you two,” Hermione says fondly a week later as she enters the Gryffindor common room to find Harry and Draco burrowed tightly together on the sofa, Draco tracing shapes on the ceiling with sparks from his wand whilst Harry lightly dozes. Hermione walks closer, the tight ringlets of her hair bouncing as she does so. “Your magic…?”

 

“Fixed,” says Draco with a nod and a smile, “even nonverbal.” He quickly flicks his wand, and, a second later, a little wrapped parcel flies into his waiting hand. He hands it to Hermione.

 

“Oh, Draco,” Hermione says, her brown eyes going wide, “you didn’t have to!” Nevertheless, she grins at him and tears into the wrapping and parcel. Harry blinks awake just as Hermione opens the lid and gasps, taking out a dainty and elegant gold necklace with a rose dangling from its chain. “It’s beautiful,” she says softly, immediately gathering her bushy hair and pushing it to the side. Draco reaches out, helping her to fasten the chain at the back of her neck. The rose falls against her chest, the gold shining against her brown skin. “It’s warm,” she states, her hand enclosing around the rose, “is it enchanted?”

 

Draco nods. The gift had been last minute, as was his gift to Harry—a pocket watch, because the dumb git forgets he’s a wizard and is always looking around stupidly for a clock. “I’ve charmed it to stay warm, unless Harry, Weasley, or your parents are in trouble. Then it will grow cold. Harry’s gift is the same. He told me about the coins you did for Dumbledore’s Army and the clock at the Weasley’s so I thought—”

 

Draco’s talking is cut off by Hermione throwing her arms around him, her elbow hitting Harry square in the face as she does so.

 

“‘Mione,” Harry grumbles, fixing his crooked glasses and frowning, though his expression is soft.

 

“It’s the most perfect gift,” Hermione says as she lets Draco out of her tight hold. Tears are flowing freely down her cheeks as she shuts her eyes, her hand moving to touch the rose again. “I’m going to show Ron, he’s just outsi—”

 

“Ron’s here?!” Harry asks suddenly, sitting straight up and leaping off the sofa. If Draco wasn’t so suddenly panicked by the thought of seeing Weasley, he’d mutter about the lack of warmth from the sudden loss of his boyfriend’s body heat.

 

“Yes,” says Hermione, frowning at Harry. “He should be coming in any second.”

 

“I don’t want to see him,” Harry states, turning to pull Draco upright. He shoots his hand out, a small textbook flying into his waiting palm. “We’re going to go to the library; let me know once he’s left.”

 

The two boys leave the common room before Hermione can get in another word, Draco nearly tripping over his feet as Harry pulls him urgently forward. As they step out of the portrait hole, the recognisable voice of Weasley echoes down the hall, and they quickly move in the opposite direction, the sound dying out as they scurry towards the library. Draco doesn’t say a word as they find a table and sit, Harry throwing down the book onto the tabletop angrily. Looking at the book, Draco frowns. _“Patronus Charm: A Practical Guide,”_ he reads aloud. “But, Harry, you can already do the patronus charm.”

 

“Yeah, but you can’t,” says Harry shortly, “yet.”

 

Pouting, Draco opens up the book to the first page. He reads the first sentence, sighs, then shuts it. “I don’t see it happening,” he says, “no matter how strong my magic is now. Death Eaters can’t cast the patronus charm.” As he says this, an illusory ache trails from his left forearm down to his wrist. He grimaces at the slight pain, automatically clutching at the troubled limb.

 

Harry seems to notice, and he’s quick to reach his hands across the table, lightly touching Draco’s knuckles. “You’re not a Death Eater,” he quips, “no matter _what_ Ron says.”

 

“Harry,” Draco says with a frown, “while I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I am fundamentally unable to do this charm. I’ve tried everything, every happy memory I have with you from the past month—none of them work.”

 

Harry groans frustratedly, thumping his head down onto the table. “There has to be _something!”_ he murmurs. “Snape was able to do it!”

 

At this, Draco’s expression changes from sad to puzzled. “Snape was able to do the patronus charm?” he whispers.

 

Screwing up his face slightly, Harry nods. “Matched my mum’s. He had a thing for her.” He shrugs. “If he can do it, there’s no way you can’t. While I appreciate his efforts during the war, you’re far and beyond a better man than he ever was. I _know_ you can do it, Draco, we just have to figure out how.”

 

Harry flips through the pages of the textbook hastily, his eyes scanning the text as Draco ponders what he’s just said. Snape could cast a patronus? It was unbelievable; as much as Draco had admired his godfather as a young boy, the man ultimately had stood by the Dark Lord’s side through years of genocide and hatred—the same hatred that had been masquerading as love and coerced Draco into believing and doing horrid, _evil_ things.

 

While Harry continues to read, Draco sighs and takes out a parchment and quill. He writes down some of the memories he’s used. _First time on a real broom. First spell. Holding hands with Harry. First kiss with Harry. Sleeping in Harry’s bed. Getting his magic back._

 

They continue like that for the better part of an hour, Draco occasionally withdrawing his wand and attempting the charm. By the time Hermione comes around, they’ve both grown weary and frustrated. Draco feels hopeless, no matter how many times Harry tells him he believes in him, no matter how many times he says, “focus on a feeling, not a memory”.

 

“Ron’s staying for dinner,” Hermione warns them as she sits down at the table next to Harry. “He’s with Ginny and Luna now.”

 

“Good for him,” Harry retorts, his head still buried in the patronus book. Draco thinks he must have read the entire thing at least twice through already—it’s only 36 pages.

 

“He wants to talk to you,” Hermione continues. _“Both_ of you.”

 

Harry looks up, his eyes narrowing. “Why? So he can make both of us feel like shit?”

 

“Harry!” Hermione exclaims. “It’s _Ron!_ He’s your best friend! You know he means only the best for you. How long are you going to keep this up?!”

 

When Harry shrugs, Hermione rolls her eyes, huffs, and pulls a shrunken textbook from her pocket. Dropping it on the table with a thud and flicking her wand, it expands to full size, taking up nearly the entire table and displacing all of Harry’s and Draco’s things. Despite the tension in the air, Draco lets out a sharp bark of a laugh as Harry’s eyes widen to a comical size behind his glasses.

 

“Merlin, Hermione,” Harry says, “the fuck is this?”

 

Hermione thumbs through the well-worn pages with a familiar ease. _“The Ancient Compendium for Magical Ontologies_. It’s very old.”

 

“The what for magical what?”

 

“Ontology,” says Hermione again. “The study of being. I’ve been trying to figure out what happened to Draco’s magic.” She looks up at him, her brown eyes seemingly burying into Draco’s soul. There’s something fierce there, and Draco has to look away, down at his parchment with the happy memories.

 

“Okay, well, mind where you put it next time,” Harry snaps.

 

Hermione glares at him like a stern mother, but she returns to her book without speaking a word.

 

The three recede into silence. Draco feels himself slipping into a poor mood; he’s anxious, aware of an intense sensation of worthlessness gathering in his gut. Even though Harry is holding his hand beneath the table, he can’t help but think that he’s the reason Harry is upset, the reason he and Weasley are in this strife to begin with.

 

Still, Draco keeps his concerns silent as they pack up their things and make their way down to the Great Hall for dinner. Hermione continues to hold the giant ontology book in front of her, reading the tiny print as they enter the Hall. Most of the students have returned, and the house tables are at almost full capacity. Draco frowns as he realises there are only a few seats available at the Slytherin table. “Harry,” he whispers, nodding towards two empty seats at the end that are mostly out of view from the Gryffindor table. They quickly hurry towards the seats, but a flash of red hair jumps in front of them.

 

“Hi, mate,” says Weasley to Harry. His voice is small, and he’s purposefully avoiding Draco’s eyes. Draco doesn’t mind the least bit; the anxious feeling in his gut is beginning to heighten.

 

“Ron,” Harry replies with a short nod, then moves to push past him. The sixth Weasley isn’t having it, blocking their path just as a pair of third year Slytherins take the last two seats next to each other that are available. Draco’s stomach twists uncomfortably.

 

“Sit with us,” says Weasley, nodding to the Gryffindor table where Finnigan, Thomas, Lovegood (isn’t she a Ravenclaw?!), and the Weasley girl are all sat, staring at them anxiously. Hermione is there too, but she’s still reading that bloody book.

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” says Harry, tightening his hold on Draco’s hand. Draco just wishes this would all stop. He feels like he could pass out at any moment, his breath shortening as his chest begins to tighten.

 

“Please?” Weasley pleads, his forehead furrowing. His eyes finally meet Draco’s, and Draco is quick to shut his. His wrist hurts.

 

“Harry,” Draco says shakily, “I need to sit down. Right now.”  

 

His vision goes tunneled and a strong arm wraps around his waist. Harry is quick to lead him to a seat next to Lovegood. Draco attempts long inhales and exhales as gently commanded by Harry, who is standing behind him and shielding him from the gazes of others. “I’ve got you,” Harry whispers soothingly. “Just keep those steady breaths going. You’re here with me; you’re in the Great Hall.”

Draco nods numbly, trying to hang onto that fact. _Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hogwarts,_ he repeats in his addled mind.

 

“Has anyone got a calming draught?” Harry hisses to the Gryffindor table.

 

Surprisingly, it’s Weasley who comes forward, thrusting a small vial into Harry’s hand. “Here you go, mate,” he says, swiftly stepping back and out of the way with a sympathetic smile. Harry uncorks the vial and carefully brings it to Draco’s lips. Draco shuts his eyes and takes a small sip, sighing in exhaustion as the potion slips down his throat and immediately sends a wave of serenity through his shaking body.

 

Draco ignores Harry, Weasley, and the others talking as he focuses his attention on the anxiety leaving his body, being replaced with clarity and warmth coming through the point where his and Harry’s hands are clasped together. He blinks once he’s sure he’s okay, then looks up at Weasley. “Thank you,” he says with honesty filling his voice.

 

“Of course,” says Weasley. “Happens to me sometimes too. Calming draughts are incredible; gotta have them on hand constantly.”

 

Draco nods, then turns to Harry. “Can we eat in the common room?” he asks quietly. “Not sure I want to stay here now.”

 

“Of course,” Harry replies. “I was going to suggest that anyway.”

 

They move to stand, and Weasley stands too. “Er, mind if I join?” he asks awkwardly. Harry sighs, but nods his head.

 

Weasley is a few paces behind them as they move steadily through the castle. Draco’s not sure what he’s up to; nothing malicious it seems, going by his behaviour during Draco’s brief panic attack, but he still isn’t entirely comfortable around his boyfriend’s best friend, if his conduct during Christmas Eve is anything to go by. When they reach the Gryffindor common room, it’s Weasley who steps forward and gives the password—“novis initiis”—to the Fat Lady, throwing Harry a nervous grin as he does so. Inside the common room, three bowls of lamb scouse are already there along with a pitcher of pumpkin juice. “Bloody love those house-elves,” says Weasley as he eyes the food, immediately sitting down at the table it’s laid out on.

 

Draco nods in agreement, catching Harry’s eye with a little smile as they join Weasley at the table. The trio eats in silence for the better of five or so minutes before any of them speak again.

 

“I owe both of you an apology,” says Weasley, looking between Harry and Draco earnestly. “And so do Dad and everyone else. I know it’s no excuse for acting like arseholes, but we were just worried for you, Harry. It’s not that we hate Malfoy… except that we all used to, including you, and then for you to just come out of nowhere and tell us now that he’s your _boyfriend?!_ You’ve got to admit it’s bloody sudden and a bit weird. But it’s no reason to be a dickhead, which I was. I’m sorry that what we said hurt you so much,” he says, clasping his hand over Harry’s shoulder. _“Both_ of you,” he adds at the end, directing his attention to Draco. “I can see now that your two really care about each other. And that Malfoy’s changed.”

 

Draco blinks once, twice, then stands and steps over to the other side of the table. Harry bites his lip for a second, his eyes going wide and his shoulders hunching. Giving his boyfriend a smile of reassurance, Draco turns to the red-haired wizard and sticks out his hand.

 

It takes just a fraction of a second for Ron to sigh in relief and take Draco’s hand, shaking it sturdily and giving Draco a wide grin. “Thank Merlin for that,” Ron laughs. “I thought I’d muck it up somehow.” He turns to Harry. “We okay, mate?”

 

“Yeah,” says Harry, his face softening. “We’re okay. Thanks, Ron.”

 

The two friends lean in to hug just as Hermione bursts into the room shouting, “I’ve got it!” All three of them turn in surprise to the bushy haired girl as she rushes toward them, pausing as she sees Harry and Ron just about to hug. “Oh thank god,” she says, throwing her arms around both of them, “I can’t stand it when you two are fighting.”

 

“Gryffindors; too much pride,” Draco mumbles good-naturedly.

 

Ron gives Draco a smile then turns to his girlfriend. “What’d you find in the book?” he asks.

 

“Okay,” Hermione begins, sitting at the table and looking at the three wizards excitedly. “So remember how Harry was saved from Voldemort in the first place because of his mum’s love and sacrifice?”

 

“How could I forget?” says Harry solemnly, joining Hermione at the table. Draco squeezes his hand.

 

“Well, it’s long been thought that love and magical strength are inherently linked, that the magic which we carry is fundamentally rooted in compassion and devotion. Have you heard of an Obscurial?” Harry shakes his head, but Draco and Ron both nod. “It’s a dark, parasitical force that develops if a young witch or wizard is forced to suppress their magic. That is, the magic goes dark when there is a lack of love. It is very destructive,” Hermione explains to Harry.

 

“But what does an Obscurial have to do with Malf—er, with _Draco_ losing his magic?” asks Ron.

 

“It doesn’t exactly... but it fits into the common theory that love and magic are connected. However, there is very little proof of it, probably due to the fact that pureblood families are so close-knit; love is almost _always_ there—even though it leads often to ideals of purity and antagonism—so there’s no statistically sound way to prove it’s connected to magic. But one person has done it. I almost missed this wizard’s name in the book; it’s such a tiny section!” Hermione points to the page. “Petrus Parnell—he was a muggleborn philosopher in the seventeenth century. He theorised that magic attaches itself to a source, but that that source is almost always the witch or wizard themselves.”

 

“So, magic is attached to your soul?” Ron asks. “But that’s widely known, isn’t it? I thought we learnt about that in History of Magic in, like, second year?”

 

“You paid attention in History of Magic?” Harry asks in disbelief as Hermione nods.

 

Ron laughs. “I think that was the only class I didn’t fall asleep in. It was vaguely interesting.”

 

“Focus!” Hermione says with a snap of her fingers, catching the attention of the two Gryffindors again.“What was so amazing about Parnell’s study is that he found a couple of instances where the magic was actually sourced from someone else which proves the connection to love! I can’t believe this isn’t talked about more often; it’s fascinating stuff! There was a huge outbreak of dragon pox in 1665, right when the plague broke out in the muggle world.”

 

“The plague?” Draco asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Nevermind that,” Hermione continues, waving her hand. “It’s not important. What’s important is the dragon pox; it affected nearly every wizarding family, and almost half the population was wiped out. What was extraordinary though, was that in a handful of instances, young witches and wizards lost the ability to do magic.”

 

“Because of the dragon pox?” questions Harry, rubbing his forehead thoughtfully.

 

Hermione shakes her head. “That’s the thing: in each case, the witch or wizard was fine, healthwise. It was their _parents_ who had been affected by the dragon pox.”

 

“Okay, ‘Mione,” says Ron, scratching his head and reaching for a goblet of pumpkin juice. “You’ve lost me.”

 

“Come on, Ron,” Hermione groans frustratedly. “Isn’t it obvious?! For those witches and wizards, their magic died when someone they _loved_ died. It wasn’t sourced in themselves. Parnell found a way to prove the connection between love and magic!”

 

“But my magic faltered before anyone I loved died,” says Draco softly, his heart growing heavy as he thinks of Vince. “And I hardly think my magic was sourced in Crabbe.”

 

“Draco,” Hermione says quietly. “I think your magic may have been sourced in your mother, and that when she saw you being... er....”

 

“It’s okay, you can say it,” Draco says softly, downcasting his eyes and holding tightly onto Harry’s hand.

 

Hermione looks at him sympathetically, sorrow in her eyes as she says, “I think part of your mother’s heart—the part that loved you so wholly and unconditionally—was destroyed when she saw you being raped, and that that bit of her heart was where your magic was sourced.”

 

A heavy silence grows over the room. Draco fights off the images of his mother, ashen and impervious as she floats around the manor in her luxury silks, eating at the table where Draco was raped, lounging on the chair where Voldemort sat when he ordered Professor Burbage to be killed, throwing out the pressed flowers Draco had picked as a boy and replacing them with silly, meaningless junk.

 

Harry is the first to break the silence, almost an entire minute after Hermione finished talking. His hand has started moving over Draco’s, lightly tracing the bones. “When I told Draco I loved him, his magic had a place to establish itself again,” he concludes.

 

Hermione nods. “Your soul still has your mother’s love in it. I believe it’s taken in Draco’s magic as well as yours and given it a new source.”

 

“That’s incredible,” Ron whispers, staring at Harry. “Bloody fantastic, it is.”

 

Draco stares at his boyfriend for a few long seconds, then casts a simple _lumos_. He stares at the steady glowing tip of his wand, at the _proof_ of Harry’s love for him, and a sudden wave of tears hits him. He rushes forward to fall into Harry’s arms. “Harry,” he says between the sobs, clenching his arms tightly around the Gryffindor.

 

Harry’s hand comes to fall at the back of Draco’s neck, softly stroking at the skin there. “I’ve got you, my love. I’m with you.” As Draco buries his face into Harry’s neck, breathing in the scent of pine and cinnamon, he hears Ron and Hermione whispers growing quieter and quieter until it’s just his and Harry’s breathing left. “I love you, Draco,” Harry murmurs, “with all my being.”

 

The sensation sparks feelings in Draco that are painfully similar to that of a panic attack, though it resonates in a completely different way. Everything around them is out of focus, his breathing grows shallow, his head fuzzy, but _Merlin_ it feels so incredible. Something tingles in his veins, spreading through his blood and all around his body, into his arms and legs and fingers and toes. It’s love. It’s magic. It’s _both._

 

“I love you; I love you,” Harry repeats, his hand trailing down to rest on Draco’s hip. Draco doesn’t care that any Gryffindor might walk in on them any second. He’s in _love_ and he’s _alive,_ and he thinks that, just maybe, this is what Fate had always intended for him.

 

***

 

The Defence Against The Dark Arts practical exam falls on a very warm day. Draco wipes at his sweaty brow as Luna Lovegood skips out of the classroom before him, a wide smile across her face as she comes up to Draco.

 

“Professor Whitby is ready,” she tells him. “Good luck!”

 

Draco nods at her and takes a deep breath, turning to Padma Patil behind him and giving her a brief, hopeful look. Then, he opens up the door to the classroom, shakes out his arms, and walks into the classroom as confidently as he can manage. When Draco walks in, he nearly passes out from nerves as he sees the examiners for the first time. They look at him carefully, glance down at their parchments, then turn to whisper between themselves as they realise who he is. In the corner, Professor Whitby smiles at him encouragingly and gives him a subtle thumbs up, mouthing, “you can do it!” to him. He manages a tiny smile, and with one last straightening of his shoulders, turns to the examiners.

 

The exam passes by in a blur. By no means does it go flawlessly; he struggles with a few of the nonverbal spells and completely botches the reductor curse, but overall, he knows he’s managed at least an Acceptable. As he pockets his wand in preparation to leave and send Padma in, one of the examiners clears her throat. He looks up in surprise.

 

“We’re giving the opportunity for students to try their hand at the Patronus charm for extra marks,” she says. She’s a frail looking old witch, but there’s kindness etched into the deep wrinkles on her cheeks. Her eyes glance down at her parchment, focusing behind a pair of tattered spectacles. “It says here that you have, on rare occasions, managed an incorporeal Patronus, is that correct?”

 

Draco nods dumbly, his eyes catching Professor Whitby with a panicked look.

 

“Would you like to attempt for the extra mark?” asks the examiner.

 

Hesitating for a moment, Draco nods, his hand blindly reaching for his wand. “Yes,” he says, his voice wavering. He clears his throat to steady it. “Yes, I would like to try.”

 

The old witch nods her head and takes a step back, poising her quill above her parchment. “Take your time.”

 

Draco shuts his eyes and conjures a feeling. Harry’s words from over the past months echo in his mind. _“Not a memory, a feeling”._ He thinks of the wind in his hair, the smell of dewey grass and newly bloomed daffodils. He imagines the sound of his mother’s hums coming from somewhere across the garden, the texture of dirt beneath his fingers as he searches for the perfect flowers to pick and place in beautiful crystal vases all around the manor, the feeling of his mother’s fingers threading through his hair as she tells him how much she loves him. With all of this flooding through him, Draco opens up his eyes, swirls his wand four times, and shouts, _“Expecto Patronum!”_

 

The force of it throws him backwards onto his bum, but he keeps his wand steady as a stream of bright light rushes from the tip. And then, just as he is about to lower the tip and stop, it happens. A silver doe leaps from his wand, bounding across the room and over Draco’s head, bright as the midsummer sun. The examiners watch in surprise, one of them dropping their parchment and quill to the floor. Draco lets out a cry of shock as the eruption of magic pours out of his every movement. The intensity of the doe’s every motion is ricocheting, and he can only keep it up for a few more seconds before she dissipates into the air in a sharp cloud. Draco stands stock still with his wand still out and pointing, quivering in the air just ever so slightly, eyes wide.

 

Behind him, Professor Whitby lets out a shout, and a few of the examiners give him supportive smiles. The older witch puts down her parchment and steps forward. “Lily Potter’s patronus was the same,” she says, gently. “I still remember when she cast it during her N.E.W.T. exam, over twenty years ago.”

 

“I know,” Draco says, quietly. He puts his hand to his chest, feeling something swelling there, pulsing in time with the beat of his heart. He shuts his eyes and smiles, savoring the feeling for several moments, before he nods to the examiners and calmly walks out of the classroom. He passes Padma, giving her a slight nod, then Parvati, and stops next to the wizard he hasn’t stopped thinking about for the past eight years. Harry’s standing there, clutching his chest as well, and Draco _knows._

 

“I knew you could do it,” says Harry, a twinkle forming in his bright green eyes.

 

Draco beams at him, unable to contain the pure joy he feels spreading through every part of his body. He is _whole._

 

***

 

That evening, just before bed, Draco sits by the dying embers of the fire in the Gryffindor common room. A sleeping Harry Potter is sprawled over his lap, his messy hair tickling the exposed bit of Draco’s stomach as he snores and twitches in his sleep. Draco’s left hand traces mindless patterns over his boyfriend’s head, his right hand holding an unopened letter. It had come to him just after dinner, stamped closed with the Malfoy sigil. With a swallow, he opens up the letter, but stops when something thin drops from between the folds and lands in Harry’s messy locks. He lets out a sharp gasp as he picks up the pressed daffodil, its milky white leaves sitting tenderly against the palm of his hand. With tears gathering in his eyes, he turns to read the small, neat text.

 

_My dearest Draco,_

 

_The most extraordinary thing happened this morning. I wonder if you felt it too. I am not sure exactly what transpired; I can only tell you that something raw and omnipotent enveloped me, my whole body, my mind, my soul. Something powerful, and something that gave me back energy I thought I had lost forever._

 

_I have decided to sell the manor. This wasn’t an easy decision; it has been our home for all of your and half of my life. But something about the feeling I got today told me that this part of my life is over now._

 

_My sister, Andromeda, has been owl-ing me for months now, encouraging me to visit her small village near the Cotswalds where she is living with her grandson. Though I have ignored her until now, I think it’s time to mend the bonds between us. I will pay her a visit this weekend._

 

_I miss you dearly, my dragon. I hope that wherever life has taken you that it is treating you well and that you know how loved you are. I love you so much, Draco._

 

_Love, Mother_

 

Folding the letter up as he finishes reading, Draco eyes the daffodil in his palm again with a smile before gently poking Harry’s side. “Harry, love,” he whispers. “Let’s go to bed.”

 

“Hmph,” Harry murmurs, shifting to bury down deeper into the sofa. Unable to help the giggle that escapes from his chest, Draco pokes Harry again. It’s futile; the other wizard’s deep breaths have already turned back into snores. With a sigh, Draco sets the letter and the pressed flower aside and snuggles into the sofa, knowing there’s no chance of getting his boyfriend up and into the dormitories. Just before his own eyes settle shut with sleep, he gives a quick flick of his wand to dim the lights. It takes only minutes for him to fall asleep, and his dreams are clear and sleep restful until the summer sun shines in through the big windows and the whispers of mischievous young Gryffindors stir him and Harry from their slumber.

 

 _Did you hear that Draco Malfoy cast a corporeal patronus during his Defence exam?_ the second years whisper as they creep across the common room towards the exit. _I hear that Ron Weasley is going to propose to Hermione Granger after she graduates,_ a group of Hufflepuffs murmur to each other as they follow Harry and Draco down to the Great Hall for breakfast. _I wonder what Harry Potter is going to do when he leaves Hogwarts?_ a sixth year Ravenclaw asks his friend.

 

Looking over at his boyfriend, Draco squeezes his hand and smiles. Whatever Harry _does_ decide he’ll do, it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that Draco will be right there with him, whole, strong, _alive._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I used this fic to explore how consent can be communicated in exchanges outside of sex between these two. I didn't feel it was right for Draco's character to immediately want to jump into bed with Harry; rather, he needed time to heal and come to terms with what had happened to him during the war. Therefore, consent had to be expressed in other situations, such as Harry asking Draco if he can touch him when he's having a panic attack or flashback. I didn't want it to be an enormous proclamation, but instead an ongoing process. I hope it's clear to the readers how important consent is outside of the bedroom—and of course the boys make it there eventually! Enthusiastic consent is sexy!


End file.
